Searching For Celia Part 2

Someone pats my hand rapidly and breathes into my face. My vision has blackened; I'm spinning into a dark hole without dimension, without end.

"There's a good girl. Eh? Let's get you some tea."

My vision clears. The woman looms over me, tipped forward with fists on hips.

"Tea?" I whisper. "All right."

The woman takes my elbow and helps up me from the Celia-scented mattress. Celia's ghostly odor rises with me, dissipates, then disappears. Dumbly I follow the woman out of Celia's flat and down the hall past two other flats to her own. Although no bigger than Celia's, this room is painted canary yellow, with pressed lace curtains and a box of ambitiously British flowers, stiff stemmed and stubbornly colored, gracing the windowsill.

"Here we are, love. Have a little rest." The woman sits me down at the table and putters in her kitchenette, switching on the electric kettle and opening a small tin of tea bags. Across the room she has a twin bed with a quilted duvet, upon which rests a listless tabby cat, sleepily eying a caged budgerigar.

"I'm sorry, Mrs....?" My voice cracks. "I don't know your name."

"Dolores Crawford," she answers proudly. "Friends call me Dot."

"Dot." I draw a deep breath. "Celia died?"

She nods solemnly. "'Fraid so."

"When?"

"Early this morning."

"How?"

She taps her foot, waiting for the kettle to boil. "I don't know the whole story, mind you. The police only left a quarter hour ago." As the water heats, so does Dot's excitement. "Apparently they found Celia's car near Waterloo Bridge. They reckon she jumped."

"Have they found her body?"

"They didn't say."

"So she might still be alive." Hope. I have hope. A car is not a body.

Dot turns from the sink and considers me with pity. "Well, Celia's had some...troubles," she says gently.

"Troubles?"

"Yes. She tried to off herself." Dot pauses dramatically. "Twice."

"What?"

"Oh yes." Suddenly animated, Dot can't wait to share the sordid tale. "First time must have been 'round about a year ago. She done slit her wrists. It was only her girlfriend getting her to hospital in time that saved her life."

"And the second time?"

Dot scowls, searching her memory. "Two months ago? Overdosed on sleeping tablets. Again the girlfriend rescued her. Reckon this time, she couldn't help."

"Why not?"

"They ended it two weeks ago." The kettle clicks off and Dot pours the boiling water over tea bags in two mismatched ceramic mugs. She fingers their cracked handles, waiting for the tea to brew.

"I don't understand." I shake my head. "We'd been out of touch for a while, but when Celia phoned me before Christmas, she seemed fine."

"Maybe she was ashamed...?" Dot looks down at her well-worn slippers.

"Ashamed of what?"

"Well, I shouldn't be telling stories out of school, but money was tight. The landlord was always pestering her for the rent and Celia was always pleading, Just a few more days, sir, just a few more days."

Dot removes the tea bags and balances them beside the sink, from where I imagine she will use them later, squeezing out the last few drops of a thin and bitter liquid.

"Then, last week, Celia was attacked in the street," Dot continues, placing a pint of milk on the table and setting down the mugs. In Celebration of The Royal Wedding, HRH Prince Charles and Lady Diana, 29th July 1981, my mug proclaims in fancy lettering, while the royal couple stare straight ahead and smile brightly, unaware of their sad future.

"Celia was attacked?" I ask.

"Yes. She came home with a black eye and a gashed cheek. Said someone grabbed her handbag and she fought back. She was a bit woozy, so I did the neighborly thing and cleaned her up"-Dot nods over her shoulder-"with that very tea towel. Haven't done my was.h.i.+ng yet."

I glance at the threadbare towel's brownish, S-shaped smear of blood. Celia's blood, still visible. Like Celia's scent, still trapped in her mattress. How can she have died? So much of her remains.

I sip the tea, cradling the hot liquid in my throat. "I knew Celia had some problems, but nothing..." Suddenly I stop and listen: steady footsteps climb the staircase and turn toward Celia's flat. "Should your neighbors be home now?"

Dot shrugs. "Colonel Fielding doesn't get out much anymore. The amputation and all. Why?"

"Come with me." I set down the mug and beckon Dot to follow. She is officially having the most exciting day of her life. I hold my finger to my lips and tiptoe, motioning for silence.

We creep down the hallway, past the staircase and toward Celia's flat. The door is open, but not enough to see in. Someone is opening and closing drawers, searching, rustling. I push the door and it flies open, banging against the wall.

A woman standing at the dresser jumps back and gasps as the drawer she'd been holding clatters to the floor. She is in her early forties, tall and thin with a long, narrow face, beaky nose, and lank dirty-blond hair.

"DC Callaway?" Dot asks, surprised. "I thought you'd finished here."

The woman smoothes her dark blue skirt and peels off her rubber gloves. "Yes...well, I was. But I wanted to double-check something."

"Oh. This is Cecelia's friend from the States...?" Dot searches for my name.

"Dayle Salvesen," I say, extending my hand as Dot and I step closer. Callaway's hand as she takes mine feels cold and lifeless. She strikes me as a peevish, impatient woman who probably smokes and is p.r.o.ne to being judgmental.

"Detective Constable Andrea Callaway," she says briskly, picking up the drawer she'd dropped and forcing it back into the dresser. "Metropolitan Police. Sorry about your friend."

"Have you found her body?" I ask, swallowing hard.

She shakes her head. "No. Not yet. But that's not surprising. The way the river flows, she could be out to sea by now."

I envision the Thames, snaking sluggishly around the boroughs of London and flus.h.i.+ng into the North Sea, belching more than 200 miles worth of waste and detritus into the cold murky waters. Celia deserves better than that.

"Dayle doesn't believe Cecelia offed herself," Dot volunteers.

"I understand. But she left a note-a suicide note-in the vehicle." Callaway grimaces. "Regarding next of kin...?"

"There isn't any," I say sadly. "Celia was an only child. Her mother died when she was three and her father last year. Someone will have to tell her girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend? And those orphans..."

"Orphans?" Both Dot and the detective look confused.

"Refugees. Those people she helps. How will they survive without her?" Suddenly I feel faint.

Dot and Callaway help me into a chair. Celia's chair. "There, there, love," Dot comforts. "You've had quite a shock."

Callaway fills a gla.s.s with water from the sink and brings it to me. I drink gratefully from the rim stained by Celia's lips.

"I'd like to speak with you about Ms. Frost, later, when you're feeling better. Attempt to establish her mental state." Callaway hands me her card. "Where are you staying?"

I look around the tiny flat. "Here? With Celia." That sounds impossible now. "I'll get a hotel. I'm speaking at a conference tonight." I sigh. "I don't know."

"Have a little rest at my place, then decide," Dot offers.

She is beyond generous, but suddenly I have to be alone. "Thanks, but I think I'll stay here," I say. "Try to collect myself."

"All right then, but I'm just down the corridor if you need me." Dot pats my shoulder.

Callaway nods at the card still in my hand. "My number's there, if you think of anything that could be useful to the investigation. I'm at the Hampstead police station just up the road-twenty-six Rosslyn Hill."

"Of course. I'll let you know." I walk Dot and Callaway to the door and bid them good-bye. Once they have gone, the silence inside the little flat is deafening. I quickly phone the airline and change my ticket. I had planned to stay in London for ten days, but instead I book a flight back to Chicago for early tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure there will be a funeral, paperwork to complete, a whole life needing to be dismantled, but I can't be any part of that. Celia would understand. It's too soon after Rory.

I sit at Celia's desk and press my palms to my face. Could Celia have killed herself? I consider the facts: Celia's only family, her father, died a year ago. She had serious financial problems. Her last book was a critical and commercial failure. Dot says Celia attempted suicide twice in the past year. She recently broke up with her girlfriend. A few days ago, she was mugged. Enough to make someone depressed, no doubt. But suicidal? Celia knew I was arriving today. Couldn't she have waited? Was she afraid I'd try to talk her out of it? Wasn't our friends.h.i.+p of more than twenty years worth at least a final good-bye?

I pace the tiny apartment. There are things here that don't make sense: dirty dishes fill the sink, but Celia's fridge is almost empty, as if she'd cleared out all the food. A brand-new suitcase, price tag still on it, sits inside the wooden wardrobe with a stack of clean clothes folded neatly on top. On her desk, maps of Dublin and of the DART, Dublin's rail line. A box of black hair dye, in a plastic bag with a receipt. Purchased four days ago, with cash. I'm convinced Celia planned to return to this flat. Return, then leave forever.

I go into the bathroom and wash my hands. While I search for a clean towel in the wooden shelves beneath the sink, something catches my eye. Pus.h.i.+ng aside some linens I pull out what looks like a brand-new credit card. It's in the name of Marguerite Alderton and signed with a flowery signature. Was Celia desperate enough to steal someone's credit card?

The phone rings and I jump. My hands are shaking as I pick up the phone and say h.e.l.lo.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo." The deep voice pauses. "Celia?"

"No. Dayle Salvesen."

"Oh, right-Celia's friend from the States. May I speak to Celia?"

"Is this Edwina Adebayo?" I think I recognize a slight West African accent.

"Why, yes it is."

"Edwina, I don't know how to tell you this. Celia died this morning."

She gasps. "That's not possible."

"I didn't think so either. But the police were just here-"

"No, I mean it isn't possible," Edwina interrupts. "Celia rang me five minutes ago."

Chapter Four.

Wednesday 10:19 a.m.

"You talked to Celia? She's alive?" My mind races. I'm angry with Dot Crawford for letting me think that Celia had died. It's all Dot's fault, and I am thrilled and enlivened to have someone to blame.

"I didn't speak to her, no." Edwina's voice is thin and nervous. My heart tumbles. "My mobile rang," she continues quickly. "No one was there when I answered, but the number on the screen was Celia's."

Hatred for Dot Crawford creeps back into my consciousness. But Celia might be alive; perhaps she was calling for help.

"Look, I'm just down the road," Edwina says. "Stay where you are and I'll be right there."

"Okay," I manage to reply. "Please hurry."

I hang up the phone, and while I wait for Edwina I search Celia's flat again, wondering what I'm missing. I think about Redleigh Smith, my alter ego; actually, my alter ego's alter ego, since I, Dayle Salvesen, write as Candee Cronin, and Candee Cronin, whom I did not know until this morning was an aspiring terrorist, created Redleigh Smith, heroine of the a.s.signment novels. Redleigh always knows what to do and looks good in a bikini while doing it. She carries truth serum in a lipstick tube and once strangled two al-Qaeda operatives with her thong.

Celia's tiny flat is dense with dirty clothes, notes scribbled on paper napkins, greasy Chinese takeout containers, and makes.h.i.+ft ashtrays. I have no idea what I'm looking for as I s.h.i.+ft haphazard piles of papers and gather loose shoes. In the bottom drawer of Celia's desk I find a sealed manila envelope labeled Personal Doc.u.ments. I'm not ready to open it, at least not yet. Then I notice a gap of several inches between Celia's stacked mattresses and the wall. Kneeling on the bed, I slide my hand into the s.p.a.ce and move forward until I hit something.

It's a new cell phone, still in its box, although the box has been opened. Inside the box, stashed beneath the phone, is a large wad of twenty- and fifty-pound notes. Counting it quickly, it comes to over 5,000 pounds-more than $7,500 dollars. What the h.e.l.l? I turn on the phone and by its prefix I can tell the number's not British.

A knock at the door startles me. I quickly stuff the items back behind the mattress. "Come in," I call loudly.

The door opens slowly and standing in the darkened doorway is a gorgeous square-shouldered woman in her late thirties, about six feet tall, with loose black curls clipped close above her ears and at the nape of her long, elegant neck. Her cocoa-colored skin is smooth and flawless, unadorned by makeup, and she has surprisingly pale gray eyes. Her high cheekbones and wide forehead give her face an open and inviting quality. She is dressed in a powder-blue b.u.t.ton-down Oxford s.h.i.+rt, straight-leg jeans, a black leather bomber jacket and black Dr. Martens boots.

"h.e.l.lo, I'm Edwina Adebayo," she says softly.

I step across the room and extend my hand. "Dayle Salvesen," I say. "Pleased to meet you. I only wish the circ.u.mstances were different."

As we shake, her muscular hand is clammy and trembling. "Celia's mobile. When she was robbed...her purse..."

"I know." I guide Edwina to a chair. "I thought of that too, right after you called. Was Celia's cell phone in her purse when she was mugged?"

Edwina shakes her head. "I really couldn't say."

"It's possible that whoever called you just now has Celia's phone and simply punched in your preset number."

"It's possible." Edwina takes a deep breath and swallows, looking up at me with vacant gray eyes. "Do you believe Celia is dead?"

I shake my head. "I honestly don't know. The police think so. They found her car, and a suicide note, near Waterloo Bridge this morning. But they haven't found a body."

Edwina's eyes fill with tears. "She's gone and done it this time," she whispers bitterly. "It's my fault. I should have been here."